Knowing
by SiobhanP
Summary: When Roger got blood work back, he told Mark that he had yet to be at death's door and then seemed to forget about it. When Mark found him absorbed in a result sheet, even though he was still healthy, he couldn't help but find it a little alarming.


Normally, when Roger went in for routine bloodwork, he listened to his doctor give him an otherwise clean bill of health and left, reporting to Mark that he wasn't yet at death's door before seeming to forget about it entirely. So when Mark found him at the kitchen table staring at the test sheet, he was a little alarmed. He'd already seen the result of the most recent tests; he knew that medically, Roger was fine, but it was strange behaviour, and Roger was wearing a look of consternation. Still, when Roger noticed Mark lurking awkwardly behind him, he folded the paper in half and laid his hands over it.

"What?" Roger demanded, a little irritably.

Mark shrugged. "Nothing. I just came out for coffee and found you sitting here… staring. I'd have left you alone, but you really looked…"

"It's my business, Mark," Roger said sharply. "Unless it ends with a needle in my arm, it's my fucking business."

Mark jumped. They'd fought the previous night and Roger had left, sleeping in his own room (which now held little more than his old bed). Mark didn't even remember what had started the fight. Something small, something he'd gasped out unthinkingly between urgent kisses. But it had set Roger off, and his anger burned even hotter than usual when he was aroused. They'd fought before – they fought, like anyone, and Roger tended to overreact – and Roger had always been fine by the morning, usually waking him with a kiss and breakfast or coffee and a cigarette. This time, though… Mark didn't think he'd been wrong, but he was willing to yield for peace. "Okay, okay," he blurted appeasingly, raising his hands in defense. "That's fine, it is, but… just remember you don't have to deal with things alone, okay?"

Roger's response was a non-committal grunt, and Mark sighed, reaching over the counter that made up the threshold of the kitchen for the coffee pot. He spotted Roger's pill bottle on the counter and said reflexively, "Take your AZT."

"The doctor would disagree with you there," Roger said matter-of-factly, and even though Mark was startled, the confusion in his voice as he made his confession explained Roger's brooding.

Mark said the only thing he could. "What?" he demanded, startled.

"Something about drug resistance," Roger said with a helpless shrug. "I guess they figured out they were starting a lot of people on drugs way too early, or something."

"But your last appointment was a month ago! I should have noticed your pills weren't—" Roger held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"There was some sort of tapering deal," Roger explained with a frown. "I don't get it, but I'm done now, until I start getting sick." Mark didn't say anything, and there was a long moment's awkward silence before Roger sighed and said, "I'm really sick of not knowing what the fuck is happening to me."

He'd touched on the root of the issue willingly, which with Roger tended to make for a long conversation. When something started bothering him enough that he actually admitted it instead of waiting for others to notice, Mark knew whatever it was had built up into a considerable issue. Mark sighed again and sat down, dropping heavily into his chair.

"So ask your doctor, Roger," he suggested, already knowing his simple solution would be rejected.

"Mark, I was diagnosed two _years_ ago," Roger stressed. "Do you have any idea how bad it's going to look if I all of a sudden go, 'Oh yeah, could you explain my lab results? I was too fucked up to care until now, sorry.'"

"A doctor's not gonna judge you, Rog," Mark pointed out. "Not a good one. Explaining stuff like that is part of their job."

"Doesn't make it any less humiliating," Roger insisted.

"So ask Collins."

Roger shook his head. "That's about the only thing that could be worse. I'd like to think Collins thinks a little better of me than that, and…"

"Collins loves you and he'll want to help," Mark interrupted. "He'd probably have talked to you himself if he'd thought you wanted him to. But… Roger, you always seem to know what your results mean. It can't be that bad."

"I've never even looked at one of these sheets before, Mark," Roger said tiredly. "I've stayed pretty healthy; my doctors have always told me that much in plain words, and… that was always enough." Mark's face had screwed into a disconcerted grimace, and Roger shook his head and gave him a sad look. "Even for you, when you asked," he pointed out. "But all this stuff… CD4+ count? Viral load? I know what it's supposed to be indicating, but… how?"

"Didn't they explain it?"

"I was high the first time I got lab results, Mark," Roger said flatly. "And after the first test… they just assumed I knew. I mean, there's probably something in my file that says I was educated or whatever."

"Oh," Mark said simply, blinking. "Well… I could explain it," he offered tentatively. He did remember, now – in fact, the day itself was burned indelibly into his memory. Roger had been utterly wrecked when they'd gone to the hospital, and the only advantage had been that he'd been placid enough not to argue when Mark had lead him out the door. Despite his otherwise silent, sullen demeanour, Roger had spoken up to say he wanted Mark with him. He suspected it was a request that would have been refused if the doctor had had any confidence in Roger's ability to care for himself, but as it was, Mark remembered sitting in the sterile office beside Roger, listening to some faceless doctor explaining it all, addressing Mark more than Roger. It was the first time Roger had had a consultation since diagnosis, so the doctor had explained absolutely everything from the nature of the disease, the AZT's potential side-effects, and – what seemed to be Roger's biggest worry now – how to decipher the then-meaningless numbers on his lab results. There'd been a lot more, the visit had been at least an hour long, and the more Mark remembered being told that day, the more he began to understand Roger's predicament.

Roger wasn't cripplingly ashamed of his past – maybe only for April's sake, Mark thought sometimes – but he was far from proud of it, and to tell an impersonal, clinically-minded doctor that he knew nothing more than the most basic facts about an illness he'd had for more than two years really was outside the sphere of what he could bring himself to do. It made sense, and the realization made Mark feel a little better prepared to talk to him about it.

Roger couldn't register Mark's change of heart, though, and he laughed harshly, "Great. Fucking great. _You_ know this stuff and I don't!"

"That's just me, Roger," Mark tried to console, daring to take Roger's hand and give a reassuring squeeze despite the possibility it could set him off once more. "It's what I do; I research everything whether I need to or not. I learned most of it after Collins told us he was positive."

"That's fine; you didn't do anything wrong," Roger dismissed distractedly. "It still doesn't excuse it for me, Mark! There's no reason whatsoever I shouldn't know this stuff."

"So learn," Mark offered softly. "Roger, look, I know you've made mistakes." Roger let out another bark of incredulous laughter. "And there is a reason, and it's those mistakes. But you fixed them. Letting yourself feel like this isn't any kind of fucking penitence, Roger. It's just…" he stopped, suddenly lacking the courage to finish his sentence.

Roger did it for him. "Another mistake," he finished with resignation, slumping. "But it's not like I'm trying to make up for anything; I just can't…"

"You're ashamed," Mark blurted, and immediately felt stupid. He'd stopped feeling like he had to treat Roger so delicately. Despite the fact they were lovers, a lot of their old "best friend" habits had resurfaced, and they'd gone back to crude jokes and teasingly derogatory sarcasm, but now being so candid seemed dangerous.

Roger's fists clenched on the table and his hackles rose. Mark flinched. Then Roger took a deep breath and his frame relaxed, and he made a small nod. "You blame me?"

"No," Mark admitted. "I don't. But you've made good with people you hurt, you got healthy… no one else is holding on to it, Rog. Remember, sure, but don't let guilt keep you from moving on. Now look," he said gently, "I know how hard it could be to have to explain this whole thing to someone, Roger, but I already know. Can't I help?"

Silence. Mark pulled out one of the more useful things he'd picked up from Maureen. He might collapse into a stuttering mess if he thought he was being unkind, but Mark could handle being manipulative for the right ends. "Honey, please?" he begged. The emotion was unfeigned, but he'd chosen his words carefully.

Roger bowed his head and shuddered visibly. He had to know he was being played – even Mark wasn't entirely without guile – but in the end, there was nothing but his stubbornness keeping him from agreeing in the first place. He unfolded the paper and smoothed it, sliding it towards Mark. "Go nuts," he allowed in a hollow voice.

Mark picked up the sheet with unsteady hands. "Okay, so the CD4 count is t-cells," he began haltingly, subconsciously noting that he couldn't bring himself to recognize the numbers on the sheet as being Roger's. They were good – they were on par with a healthy person's – but he didn't have it in him to personalize the "lesson" any more than it had to be inherently. "Which is…"

"What HIV takes out," Roger interrupted. "I get that. I get mine are fine. I get that anything lower than 150's gotta be bad." He paused, shivering in the loft's humid, stifling air. "At least… Mimi's test last summer, the number for CD4 positive… plus… whatever… was 132," Roger's voice caught, and Mark realized that to Roger, seeing that number had been a defining moment, even if only in hindsight. "And she was so upset, even when she pretended for everyone else, and she kept going back to that fucking lab result sheet… And it didn't mean a Goddamn thing to me, Mark, all I knew was that I was going to lose her."

Mark swallowed hard. He might understand the numbers, but ultimately their meaning was the same to both he and Roger. It was life and death, what Roger was missing was the grey area. "That's all it ever could have meant, Rog," Mark pointed out sadly. "You couldn't have changed it. Not… well… Do you want me to keep going here?"

Roger barely nodded, but his intent was clear enough.

Not knowing what else to do, Mark kept talking. "Healthy people tend to fall somewhere between a 500 to 1500 score. Between 200 and 500 shows damage, but most people stay healthy for the most part. Anything under 200, well, that's…"

"AIDS," Roger finished for him, staring into his lap. "So she was… I was never sure if it was the smack or…"

"It was being sick like she was and living on the streets," Mark said quietly. "The way she used to cough, it was probably pneumonia."

"But they can treat that," Roger protested in a small voice.

"Mimi knew that, Roger," Mark said sombrely. "But even if she got better, she would have needed chemo, and then she'd have been sicker, if anything. She had cancer – lymphoma. Drawing it out… she knew it would have hurt you both."

That had been her rationale when Mark had begged her to let them take her to a doctor. It would only be more painful, the smack would do her in anyway, and it would be money spent on prolonging the inevitable. Just let me go how I want, she'd pleaded, here with my friends. So Mark had, but it was only now, when he was explaining it to Roger, that it really seemed right. He'd respected her wishes, but his instincts had fought it every step of the way.

Roger seemed to feel the same way. He swallowed hard again, breathing shallowly, and reminded himself, "It was what she wanted."

Mark nodded.

Roger stared at the backs of his hands, almost wonderingly. "And I…" he laughed bitterly. "What can I say? The day's gonna come I might feel the same."

Mark shook his head a little despairingly. "Just don't ever think you have to do it for me," he whispered. "However it works out, Roger, as long as you want help we'll make sure you get it."

"And I'll just get sick again, Mark," Roger said tiredly.

"Angel lived three years with AIDS. She was healthy for most of it."

"She looked fine," Roger conceded. "But Mark, Jesus, she had cancer for a year and a half! And every time she got sick, especially on top of that, it was hell on Mimi. It was hell on Collins the last time, hoping that because they were treating her she'd make it. Every time, it was nothing more than a lot of agonizing over whether it was finally the end."

"Neither of them would take it back," Mark insisted with certainty. "And it's a good thing for Collins, too. And speaking of Collins…"

"Don't. Collins' t-cells might say he has AIDS, but he hasn't gotten… any of that shit yet. You can't use him as an example when he's still healthy."

"A cold taking you out for three weeks isn't 'healthy,' Roger," Mark said heatedly.

"You're right, it's not," Roger agreed mildly. "But it's no fucking way to live, either."

"And what exactly do you propose we do? Take him out back and finish it?"

"Shut the fuck up, Mark," Roger snapped. "You know that wasn't what I meant."

"I…" Mark faltered. He sighed, "Why the hell are we fighting? Not over this, please, it's just stupid…"

Roger shook his head, not answering.

"Look, Roger, I'm sorry," Mark apologized sincerely. "I just… I really hate to think that you're still so ready to give up on yourself."

"It's just natural," Roger admitted, giving in surprisingly easily. "It was really hard, not dragging Mimi to a doctor whether she wanted it or not. But…" he shook his head again, making a pained sound. "The trip probably would have killed her. If I'm ever like that… I'm sorry, but I can't make any promises."

"I'll respect whatever you decide," Mark promised. "Just…"

Roger grinned. It was a little forced, but reassuring nonetheless. "Well, from the looks of it, you're stuck with me for awhile," he declared. "And when it comes down to it… I won't just give up. Okay?"

Mark gave a tiny nod, his eyes roaming anywhere but Roger.

Roger ran his fingers through his hair, distressed. "Mark, relax. Didn't you just say we shouldn't be doing this?" Mark nodded again. "Come here; explain this. I promise I won't get mad this time."

Mark rose and walked the few steps to Roger's chair, hesitantly settling between Roger's spread legs and letting himself be moved to recline against the other man. Roger's arms slid around him and he kissed the tip of his ear, and Mark relaxed.

"I'm sorry," they both said simultaneously. Roger laughed.

"We're okay, I think," he said lightly, squeezing Mark. "Now let's try and do this calmly so I'll actually remember, all right?"

Mark shrugged. "Roger, I really don't think you're missing that much. I… Look, I'm supposed to know all this. I'd go out on a limb and say I do know most of it. It doesn't make a difference sometimes. Knowing doesn't make me feel any less helpless about it all. And I think that's what's really bothering you, and I… can't do much but be here. Anything factual I tell you might help a little, but it won't change what happens, good or bad. I've got a book I want you to read; it should tell you what you want to know. But when you get feeling like this… talk to me, okay?"

Roger nodded. "That wasn't really what I wanted to hear," he confessed. Mark had as good as known it. "But I kind of saw it coming. I'd still like to get through this test sheet thing, though."

"Okay," Mark agreed, sounding exhausted. "They tested your iron levels, too. I'm guessing because AZT and HIV can both cause anemia. You're fine there, but I have no idea where you fall in the range."

Roger laughed. "If I had anemia, it'd be dietary deficiencies, I think. I don't even eat right when I can. I mean, you give me a choice between a Twinkie and spinach…" Mark shivered. How could Roger be laughing? But wasn't it a good thing he was? Didn't that have to mean that he'd realized the inevitable was the inevitable and it was better to laugh about it that cry? And if Mark could think it was a good thing for Roger to feel that way, then why couldn't he be the same?

He'd work on it, but now he just wanted to be done so they could relax. "Yeah," he agreed with a forced chuckle. "But a hundred Twinkies might still have more nutrients than a plate of spinach, and you're… not exactly known for moderation with food you like."

Roger grinned. "Exactly. I still think I should pack on some weight. Not like it won't fall off if I stop stuffing food in my face." He spread his palm out over the protrusion of Mark's hipbone. "And you could stand it, yourself. I mean, you weigh what, 130?"

Mark shrugged. "Haven't weighed myself in forever. I eat when I get hungry, when I can."

Roger frowned, a serious, thoughtful look on his face. "I think I need a job. If I could be productive like you, it'd be worth staying home to work. But I think I'd be accomplishing more by making sure I have my medicine and we can eat."

"You don't have to," Mark said automatically.

"I know I don't _have_ to," Roger huffed, almost playfully. "But I'd like to have some stuff for a change, and staying here doing nothing all day isn't any good. I can play my guitar, but the real creative energy is gone, and… I can't spend the rest of my life chasing it. It'll come, I believe that, but in the meantime it's not gonna hurt us to be able to eat without selling all our shit like crackheads or something."

"Whatever you want," Mark murmured. "But Roger, if you really think it's important, I could…"

"No," Roger interrupted. "Mark, there's no reason I can't work. You, you're accomplishing stuff. You've got something to show for what you do. And besides, it's about damn time I took care of you for awhile."

"Mm," Mark mumbled out, uncertainly. Roger didn't seem inclined to continue arguing, and they sat together silently for a long time before Mark asked, "Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we… just go lay down? I'm tired; I… didn't sleep that well last night."

Roger kissed his head. "I know," he agreed softly. "Me neither. I… never do, when we do this. Why do we do this, Mark?"

"Human nature?" Mark suggested, even though he felt as clueless as Roger. No matter how angry he got, when he or Roger stormed out, it never took him more than five minutes to regret almost every word he'd said, even if he still believed them to be true. Love was worth keeping certain things unspoken. But there was a lot of it he'd never say unless he got angry, and that was doubly true for Roger. Maybe Mark could only bring himself to say those things when he was angry because he knew how they would hurt. Of course, keeping those things inside eventually made him angry, and so it was a cycle of sorts. But maybe that was just natural. It wasn't as if their fights ever lasted; they usually ended up happier with one another in their wake. Conflict was bound to occur; it was the ability to ultimately turn it into something productive that kept them together.

"Yeah, maybe," Roger said dismissively. "I'm not trying to brush you off, Mark, but… let's just be happy we're all right for now, okay? Come on, if you want to take a nap, we'll need to soon. Joanne wants to take us out for dinner tonight, remember?"

They'd never finished going over Roger's results, and even though Mark knew it, he agreed. The book could probably do a better job than he could anyway, and he was all too ready to relax and revel in the other man's presence. For all their worries about Roger's sickness and the fights they'd never had when they were friends, it was moments like these that made it all worth it.

Mark smiled to himself. Joanne might be waiting for them a lot longer than she'd planned.


End file.
